


Future Days

by maroon



Category: The Old Guard (2020), The Old Guard (Comic)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maroon/pseuds/maroon
Summary: “Then why untie me?”The man grins, terribly amused, and awfully affectionate. Andromache wants to look away, but for some reason, can’t. Maybe because the look in his eye reminds her of herself, a lifetime ago. “Because my beloved is soft, and kind, and will flay me alive if he’d known I tied up a woman.”
Relationships: Andy | Andromache the Scythian/Noriko | Quynh, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 91
Kudos: 3837





	Future Days

The first time she meets Yusuf, he’s barely getting the hang of Greek, dressed in garbs so poor that if not for the visions Andromache’s been having, she’d have left him where he was, and she thinks: _should I bother?_

There’s only so much mayhem she can handle, especially during a time of brewing wars, stemming from infighting and corrupt officials; taking care of fledglings isn’t really her _plane of expertise_. She’s never had children, and while the man ambling about in a damn near rotten shroud is not a child, he might as well be against her three thousand some years of having lived her kvetched life. 

She chews on her tobacco some more, keenly eyeing the way he maneuvers in and out of the _agora_ , his broad shoulders giving him the advantage that he needs in the bustling little marketplace. Andromache finds herself smiling when she spots him lift a good handful of fruits from a stall, eyebrows climbing when he moves on from fruits to more expensive meats, spices. 

Andromache sits on the ledge and waits for him to get caught, pondering the shy curls of his hair peeking out from his shroud, the thick beard that decorates his jaw. He looks too young to have discovered his immortality. Young, yes, but definitely not weak, not with the way he artfully and effortlessly shoves a man bigger than him to the side, ducking into the throng of people before said man could find out who it was that shoved him. 

A laugh bubbles out of her mouth when the big man starts patting frantically at his person, which is undoubtedly one purse lighter. 

She spits out her tobacco when he does not resurface from the crowd, hopping down from the ledge and slithering towards the main street, hoping to catch him again. She’s not going to lose him; after thirty years of chasing after him, she’s not about to _fucking_ lose him. 

The thing about Andromache is that she stands tall, even amongst men; she’s easily picked out, pale and tall as she is. Noriko teases her about it, small as she is, standing up to Andromache’s shoulders and not any further. She pushes the thoughts of black eyes and black hair away as she ducks into an alleyway, hoping to get a higher advantage to spot her errant immortal once more. 

So when a rough palm encloses around her neck, a dagger pressed tight between her ribs, she knows she’s been found only by the grace of her freakish height and pasty complexion, and Andromache ponders when she’ll brown underneath the Grecian sun. There’ll be time for that, later. Maybe she’ll take Noriko on a trip to the sunny seasides of Argolis, tan a bit before moving on to greener pastures. 

The man barely gives her time to speak when he shifts, quicker than sound, and slits her throat. For all that she has thought of the young godling, she did not expect for him to kill her so easily. And so when she falls onto her knees on the ground, bleeding stark rivulets from a laceration around her throat, she manages a smirk. 

She thinks she may have found a kindred spirit—and not just another immortal—when the man drops onto his haunches before her, his shroud pushed back to his shoulders to reveal a handsome, strong face, and eyes filled with reluctant mirth. 

He winks, and for what seemed to be the millionth time, Andromache welcomes death. 

**

When she comes to, she is slung over a horse, hands and feet tied expertly, and the man is riding down a dirt path, slow and lazy. 

She asks, in Greek, “ _You knew?_ ” 

He turns around, and speaks in flawless, accented English, “The dreams. Nicolo suspected you would come, and soon.” 

“Nicolo?” 

The man hums, a small smile on his face. “You will see, soon enough.” 

After a few hours of nothing, Andromache finally gives in and starts hacking at her bindings with the small blade she’d hidden underneath her gauntlets. She’s halfway through when the man looks over his shoulder, scoffing good naturedly at her attempts. 

“Better to stay put, friend,” He drawls, rolling his shoulders as if to settle for the long haul. “Immortal or no, you’d wish you were dead if you got lost in this forest.” 

“Can I at least sit up?” 

He laughs, as if she’s said something extremely entertaining. Andromache frowns, and wonders how long she could be annoyed at an immortal. She’s had centuries to hone her skills in grudge-keeping, so it shouldn’t be too hard. 

After a few more hours, Andromache bemoans the state of her ribs, even though the gelding she is thrown over is riding smoothly, making her heart clench in remembrance of her own tawny mare, Danaia, a few thousand years dead now. 

At the end of the forest—or the heart of it—they come upon a small home, boxed and humble much like all the houses in Greece are, though here, flowers grow wildly, crawling up the white walls and painting it blue, and yellow, and pink. She looks at it for a moment before she’s being pulled upright, and then onto her feet. 

_Finally_ , Andromache thinks, working out the kinks along her back, _some dignity_. 

In her head, Noriko is teasing her, dimpling beatifically as she ribs and takes no prisoners. _Thrown over a horse like some dead doe,_ Noriko says, _how embarrassing, Andromache the Scythian!_

“I will untie you, if you promise to behave.”

Andromache sneers. “I am not a child.” 

“So you are not. But my beloved is soft, and kind, and I will not have you have him at a disadvantage.” 

Andromache raises an eyebrow at that; immortality, after all, is dull without anyone to love, or to fuck. 

“Then why untie me?” 

The man grins, terribly amused, and awfully affectionate. Andromache wants to look away, but for some reason, can’t. Maybe because the look in his eye reminds her of herself, that young woman who fell in love so quickly and easily. “Because my beloved is soft, and kind, and will flay me alive if he’d known I tied up a woman.” 

Then he rids her of the rope, and Andromache stretches herself to her full height, which is, surprisingly, the same as the man. She arches her eyebrows at him, and lets him lead her inside the house. 

The first thing she thinks when she enters is that it smells _heavenly_ , and the second thing is that one of their walls is decorated with too many weapons. She stops in front of the wall and stares at a beautifully forged axe, squinting at the swirling carvings along its hilt. 

“Impressive,” She says. 

“And a pain to maintain.” An equally tall man appears almost out of thin air, footsteps quiet but not timid. He is striking, pale and fair haired, eyes a vivid, stormy blue, a colour that reminds Andromache of the wild seas she and Noriko travelled. 

His hair falls in graceful waves down his shoulders, foreign and divine, and Andromache is surprised by how she is arrested by his kind beauty. “But it keeps Yusuf occupied.” His smile is sweet and welcoming, and Andromache is taken back, when he comes close and stretches his arm out in a warrior’s greeting. “I am Nicolo di Genova.” 

She takes his arm, surprised at her own actions. But there is something that draws him to this pale-eyed man, something she’s been aching to have for decades now. 

“Andromache the Scythian.” 

His eyes light up, clearly searching, and Andromache knows she’s short one immortal, but does not speak on it. Noriko is the love of her life, yes, but she is also the eastern wind, wild and free to go as she pleases. This is partly why Andromache loves her. 

Though faced with an immortal and his lover, clearly and unabashedly in love as they are, Andromache wishes that she has Noriko at her side. 

Nicolo waves a slender hand towards the figure at Andromache’s shoulder. “He is Yusuf Al-Kaysani, if the brute cared to introduce himself.” 

Andromache practically feels the giddiness in the man behind her, blinking when he moves from guarding her to crossing the space between himself and the stormy eyed host, placing a light hand on Nicolo’s waist, dipping downwards to press a chaste kiss onto the man’s thin lips.

He smiles against the slightly smaller man’s lips, and murmurs, “I got you your spices.” 

Andromache, feeling the urge to break up such blatant display of affection, says: “No, he just slit my throat, tied me up, and threw me over his horse.” 

Yusuf’s eyes widen, and he mouths ‘ _traitor’_ at her. Andromache finds herself grinning. 

When Nicolo’s lips curl into a displeased little line, Andromache realises that this man, this Nicolo, is also an _immortal_. She’s only been dreaming of Yusuf—or rather, the both of them—for the past century or so.

Had they been together, all this time?

Andromache barely remembers the first dream. Shouting, violent, war-torn. As it always was. It seems that the only people that immortality touches are those who deal death so carelessly.

The pain of a sword between her ribs, sharp, black eyes. Death. Over and over and over. That displeased line that slashes across Nicolo’s pale face. 

She’s still lousy with barely contained disbelief when Nicolo swims back in her vision, and she thinks: _this man’s kindness will get him killed,_ because he settles a hand on her shoulder, and tells her, “I’ve made supper. Come. It is easier after a good meal, no?” 

Andromache looks into his eyes. He can’t believe that. It wasn’t _easy._ As if it were ever _that_ easy. 

But as Yusuf and Nicolo turn their backs to her, a wide, brown palm making its way to the small of Nicolo’s back as they go, a small smile underneath that bush on his face, Andromache realises, as she deftly follows them, that it could be _that easy_. 

**

When she wakes up, it’s to Nile’s face, scrunched up as she does her hair, skillful fingers making quick work of tightly coiled locks. Joe is sitting beside her, watching her work keenly, already like a doting father. 

They’ve never talked about it. Children, that is. Out of all of them, Booker was really the only one who had children, and cared for them until the cruel end. As much as Joe and Nicky would care for a child, it never could happen, with things as they are. 

Now that Andy’s a mortal, she might give mothering a try, but she knows she’ll be bad at it. _Mothering_ is more Nicky’s area of expertise, anyway.

She smells something in the air, something heavenly, and Andy sighs, leaning her head back onto the patchwork couch and smiling to herself. 

Andy sniffs. “Something Mediterranean?” 

Joe taps the side of his nose and winks at her, before reaching out to gently pull a lock of hair that Nile had missed. The young woman thanks him, eyes still on the television, where a mindless show is playing. 

Andy’s seen it all. The only thing that draws the eye anymore are those space movies. Groaning, Andy stretches and lets her spine pop, before unfolding herself from the way-too-comfortable couch and padding towards the kitchen, where Nicky is busy making a spread of what seems to be Grecian cuisine, his face focused and sweet. 

“Felt like Greece?” Andy asks in greeting, and Nicky looks over his shoulder at her, his hair a shock of black.

Nicky turns and dimples at her, young as the day they met. He always looks like he’s waiting to see someone at her shoulder, and Andy tries her hardest to pretend she doesn’t notice. “Like the good old times.” 

She reaches out and tugs at the errant locks, making a face. “You looked better a redhead, you know.” 

“It was strawberry blond!” Joe yells from the living room, and Andy rolls her eyes. The man’s too damn particular. 

“It was _ginger_ ,” Andy shouts back, just to be a contrarian. 

Nicky laughs, shaking his head. “Shut up and set the table.” 

Andromache, because she can never say _no_ to Nicolo di Genova, huffs and follows.

Four plates, like always. She tries not to be saddened by this, but it does get easier. For all that she is a cynic, she is not _ungrateful_ , nor is she blind to what she has. 

From here on out, it will be difficult for Nile. For all of them. 

But it _will_ get easier. 

After a good meal, that is. 

**Author's Note:**

> i’ll roll out the porn soon enough.


End file.
